We stared at the bullets still lodged in the brick wall on the lower East side of the building. We were in the back room of the Slippery Noodle, the oldest bar in Indianapolis. Legend says that the infamous Dillinger Gang shot cans off each others heads there in the back room to pass the time while illegal whiskey was distilled in the basement. We walked back up front. A large man in a silly sleeveless walked by and asked my wife to feel his muscle. He was about 50 years old...big, and in good shape, all toothy grins and Harley tatoos. Aimee giggled and obliged while I glared at him...uselessly. A poorly painted voluptuous bar nude hung over the top shelf liquor just below the 120 year old stamped tin ceiling. Maybe she was one of the working girls that occupied the building while it doubled as a bordello after the civil war.This was just one of the cool spots we hung out at in between practice, qualifying, and racing during the 2009 Red Bull GP at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway.
Indy is a cool town. Clean and accessible. Hip and interesting. Leaving the hotel, we could walk in any direction to find anything our little hearts could afford. Bars, restaurants, shopping, Art, entertainment…it’s all there.
Friday and Saturday evening during the race weekend, smack in the middle of the city, motorcycle police close off Meridian Street South of Monument Circle. No cages allowed. In fact the only cars allowed on the street are the Red Bull Mini Coopers that are parked at every corner. Pretty girls in tight Red Bull outfits smile and flirt and hand out their silver and blue cans of stay-up-late. I must have drunk fifty bucks worth over the course of the weekend. I had soggy wings.
As the sun set Friday, thousands of motorcycles descend on the humid city blocks to kick up a ruckus. Well dressed beggars rattle the change in their plastic cups next to steaming manhole covers. Silicone girls dressed in checkered flag spandex and hard-bitch heels teased blushing police. The parking lots are filled with bikes and novelty.
The Red Bull lot had a stage where we watched sweaty boys in hoodies break dance to a live DJ spinning and scratching rave Darth Vader over Marvin Gaye. Other guys on BMX’s used the beat to rip off tricks on clammy pavement. Off to the side, Preston Farabow flattens, welds, and grinds Nascar lug nuts into belt buckles for the crowd. He’s on Red Bull’s payroll as a sort of rock-n-roll metal sculptor. His latest creation is a sculpture he fabbed up from a wrecked Red Bull race car. It looked like something from the set of a Tim Burton movie and was on display at the speedway.
By now we were hungry, so we settled into the Claddagh Irish Pub where we washed down our lobster ravioli with Guinness and cider…Black Velveteen’s.
I left Aimee standing in front of our hotel with her pink jacket and pinker helmet while I went to look at some bikes and snap some pictures. When I returned, she was being hit on by a very sweet, very drunk guy named Dave. He straightened up immediately as he saw me approach.
“Ah, the husband. Your wife is a lovely girl. She’s a bright face in the crowd.”
Spot on, Dave. I almost feel bad that he crashed and burned, and I'm glad his arms were covered.
After a full day, we were exhausted and returned to our room where I took in the street scene. My hotel room overlooked the Meridian insanity from 40 feet above the road. Guys in armored mesh and backwards ball caps became babbling, twitching fools when confronted by the monster cleavage that was evident from my vantage. Makes me wish I was taller. Women used the event as an excuse to show off their pushed-up girls, which was nice.
I didn’t count many sheep before the sun came back up. That window reverberated with the sound of mayhem well past the 2:am last call. The Jagermeister lot was the perfect cross street compliment to the Red Bull lot. Turbo Hayabusa’s and Supercharged Harley’s squatted over a dyno there, battling for horsepower supremacy while crowds gathered and gasped. This was fueled by the shots of cough syrup that the Jager-bombshells were peddling. The Bud Light Lounge loomed in the back of the lot. More girls. Alcohol and motorcycles is a bad, bad combination, but I don’t remember seeing anybody wobble off drunk on two wheels. Regardless, walking is definitely the way to go here.
Saturday after we watched qualifying at the Brickyard, we rode to the Indiana State Fair Grounds to take in the Mile. I had never taken in Grand National flat track event, but everybody’d been telling me I needed to see it. Everybody was damned right.
We entered the fairgrounds behind a pick-up truck loaded up with hollering rednecks wearing USU gear, holding thermal mugs that weren’t full of coffee. Even those rowdies in the back of the lifted Ram were surprised to see grandma and grandpa Republican walking behind the chain link fence along the drive, a double barreled shotgun balanced over each of their four shoulders.
Jesus, this must be the place!
The mile was indescribable. The noise, the racing and the danger are something every true motorcyclist should see. These were real racers laying a lot down for very little. Bangin’, tough, rough and dirty…
Awesome.
On this weekend, Indianapolis becomes a town more motorcycle eclectic than any other two wheeled event in the nation. More Harley’s than Laguna Seca, more racers than Sturgis, and it all fits. Wise, BMW mounted men dressed in all weather gear share the town with dumb asses in shorts and tees on their ZX-14’s. Hard American Iron bikers share the road with the nicest people on Hondas. It’s the perfect motorcycle weekend.
Oh, and there’s a Moto GP race too.
